


Lyrical Debauchery

by keelywolfe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chair Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:18:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is sex. And a chair. And a violin. Really, that's all I've got. What there is not: plot. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lyrical Debauchery

**Author's Note:**

> It's Sunday and I have a terrible cold. This means I need to write porn. I know the summary is a little shallow but it had blessings. With holy enchilada sauce. Also, I have a fever, so it all seems great to me. Have fun! ;)

It was never an easy fuck; John simply didn't seem wired that way. Always, it took a moment for him to relax, slow, deep breaths as the excruciatingly tight clench of his body loosened in increments. More than once Sherlock had come before he'd even had a chance to move, that magnificent tightness spasming around him would test the control of any man, even Sherlock Holmes. 

Not that it ever stopped John from doing it. Not when he could push Sherlock down on his back and render him mute, straddling him, and just his lube-slick fingers were a temptation, guiding Sherlock into him. Watching his well-worn face tighten at the first press inward, a hitched breath drawn in from between clenched teeth. Sometimes Sherlock was allowed to touch, hands on John's hips only as a place to rest them, not to force him down, no, no faster than John could take it. After those times, Sherlock would see the almost perfect outline of his fingertips in violet-yellow bruises imbedded in John's skin for days afterward, a visual reminder whenever he stepped out of the shower, slipped into his clothes for the morning. There was no sense in shame for how the very sight of them made him hard so Sherlock didn't bother with it. 

Other times, mostly when there was already a series of bruises lining the smooth paleness of John's skin, he had to keep his hands on the sheets, clenching fistfuls of their luxurious thread-count as he did not, could not, move.

Or his fingers could be clenched white on the arms of his chair. Like now. 

"If you don't hold still, I'm going to stop," John warned. His voice was a low, aching thread of want, raw with it and yet, Sherlock knew from past experience that it was not an idle threat. 

"I am holding still," Sherlock blurted quickly, clenching his hands tighter, gripping the metal railing that ran along the outside of the chair arms. Fuck. He was holding still, he had to be, because John was in his lap, straddling him as best he could and Sherlock was only barely inside him, slick, tight heat around just the head of his cock.

John's laugh was shaky and Sherlock slit open his eyes to look at him. He was drenched in sweat, his skin nearly glowing in the lamplight, darkening his hair to a dull brown. His thighs were shaking, his arms against the back of the chair straining from holding himself up, and still, he didn't budge an inch, holding himself up with strength one wouldn't unexpected. Muscle was layered under John's slightly softer shape, his former military life still unshed. 

Gorgeous. Sherlock bit back a groan and closed his eyes again as John slid down an infinitesimal amount, hot, clenching heat barely easing. And then he stopped.

"You're not," John gasped out, "I'm right here and you aren't being still at all."

It was true and it wasn't. Sherlock was moving, his hips shifting with a life of their own, craving that first real thrust, eager to be inside, wanting to ride in the slick heat of John's body and feel John tighten around him, excruciatingly, feel the hot patter of come on his chest and belly as John whimpered and moaned against him.

He was moving but it wasn't his fault, it really wasn't, and he told John so, and if his voice was pitched deep, frayed at the edges, well, he was hardly to blame for that, either, "I'm being as still as I can be, this is me holding still, you need to be moving and then I can be still!"

Another huff of laughter and that shaking intensified. John was being as stubborn as his body always was, dragging this out, damn him, and he proved it by saying in short, quick blurts, "I'm not…not moving until you hold still."

His voice was a contrast, higher in arousal, vivid, ragged with it and it held so many promises. Promises that would be kept of Sherlock could just hold still.

Sherlock drew in a long, deep breath, tasted their sweat, the thick smoggy heat of their sex. If he opened his eyes, he would see sweat pooling in the indent of John's collarbone and licking it would give him salty dampness, the faint bitterness of aftershave. Memories haunting him, ghost whispers of past sex, of the sounds John could, did, make, the taste of him, the slippery weight of his semen in Sherlock's hand. A thousand details that had lodged themselves into Sherlock's brain without permission and all he could do was blurt out, "I can't! I can't, John, please…I need to come, now, right now."

A shift of John's weight against him and Sherlock gasped aloud, his fingers clenching convulsively at the change in angle. Not quite deeper, just different, all new nerve endings engulfed and if anyone had told Sherlock in the past that he could focus all his attention into the narrow expanse of skin at the tip of his prick, he would have called them idiots. Vulgar idiots but idiots nonetheless. 

John couldn't know just what he was doing and perhaps that made the soft touch of his mouth against Sherlock's worse, the wet trace of his tongue over his lips, lingering at the indent of his upper lip. "You can, I know you can, can't you? Please? For me, Sherlock, be still for me?"

There was no other reason for it. John was simply a sadist. A sadist who plucked at Sherlock's strings with all the skill Sherlock used on his violin, a concerto in sex, a symphony in pleasure, dragging him a cappella to orgasm. And Sherlock could only obey the conductor. 

He gave a curt nod, clutched at the chair hard enough to feel the burning ache in his fingers, and forced his hips to stillness. 

"There we are," John whispered, still close enough for Sherlock to feel him wet his lips. That glorious, slick tightness around him eased down, sliding him further in and fuck, it was gorgeous, encasing him in hot, clenching perfection, and John might be playing him like an instrument but Sherlock was the one lost to the music of it. He held still, perfectly still, let John rock down on him, each slow, slippery glide taking him in deeper. 

Heat was already pooling between his legs, the climax approaching too quickly, and Sherlock tipped his head back away from John, sucked in a cooling breath and tried so very hard not to come as John settled against him, the smooth cheeks of his arse resting on Sherlock's thighs. 

Long moments, unmoving, and when John finally, oh, finally, shifted against him, the slow, careful rock of his hips was excruciating. 

Sherlock's hands scrabbled over the chair arms, clenching, trying desperately to not simply grab John and forced him to move, "Allegro!" he blurted, begging almost incoherently, "Allegro, presto!"

To his horror, John stilled, his hands resting against Sherlock's chest for balance, "Did you just—of course you did," John breathed out a laugh and leaned back, grinding down for one brief, perfect instant that made Sherlock cry out wordlessly. Another, slow, deep thrust before John leaned in again, and this time it was his teeth against Sherlock's lips, nipping gently as he murmured, "I actually prefer adagio." 

"No…" Sherlock moaned, no, not slower, not, John was already moving on him aching slow, rising up and sliding back down and it was easier each time, and yet… "Accelerando," he pleaded, and his control over his hips was slipping, they rose of their own accord, rising smoothly to meet each downward thrust. 

"Pianoforte," John countered and Sherlock's breath stuttered in his chest. Sherlock couldn't stop, not now, not with John moving against him, the easy slide of his hips a contrast to that one word. 

"Do you…do you know what that means?" Sherlock had to ask, had to be sure. John's lazy grin was sweet confirmation.

"Don't know of another one that could mean fuck me hard…Christ!" John broke off with a shouted cry, Sherlock clutching his hips and driving up into him, jerking up desperately, fucking into him as eagerly as John's single word allowed. The sounds John made were a choked cross between startled and need, yes, and he felt it from the inside the moment John started to come, the brilliant, perfect squeeze of his body around Sherlock matched by the hot, slick spill between them. 

Messy, Sherlock had always thought before, messy bodies with their fluids and juices, sticky messes. Now he only slid a hand through the pale, wet stripes on his chest, painted his slippery fingers over John's lips until he sucked them, dazed flickers of his tongue over and between Sherlock's damp fingers.

"Yes, yes, bellissimo," Sherlock groaned, driving up hard once, again, and his own orgasm overflowed from him in a rush of white heat. Spilled from him, drawn from him in a wild rush of musicality and if could have drawn a melody from his orgasm, the world might have been drawn along with him. He came to the mental image of a worldly orgy, lyrical debauchery and Sherlock poured all of it into the sweet, hot clench of John surrounding him. 

It took him a long moment of rest, enough for his heart to slow, his breathing to ease, for Sherlock to conclude that this chair was dreadful for the aftermath. Leather was murderously cruel against sweaty bare skin. Complaining would only lose him John that much sooner though so Sherlock ignored it, concentrated on the feel of his softening cock slowly losing its snug home inside John.

Alas, John stirred, lifting his head to meet Sherlock's gaze. One corner of his mouth was curved in a smile, "Bellisimo is not musical terminology." 

"A strange conclusion from someone who doesn't play the violin."

John only chuckled, pressed a kiss against Sherlock's mouth before he eased away with a groan, ignoring Sherlock's mournful sigh. "You may be clever but I have access to Wikipedia. It's not a musical term, you were just calling me pretty. Which now that I think about it, is slightly more disturbing." 

"Your deductions could use some work," Sherlock said, any tartness he might have managed was still blunted in orgasmic lethargy. 

John only shrugged, unbothered, "You keep telling yourself that. I'm going to have a shower. Care to join?"

"Not yet," Sherlock said, absently, and again, John only shrugged. The bathroom door closed behind him softly and Sherlock listened to the liquid pour of the shower starting, indoor rainfall on John's body. 

It drew him to his feet, finally, hardly grimacing as he fastened his pants over the tackiness on his belly. His violin was in its case but it was a matter of moments to free it, to draw rosin over the bow and lift it to his chin. He set bow strings to steel ones and drew it across, let notes spill free, the song that was still lively in his head coaxed aloud. A symphony of John played in sweet adagio, in the stillness of their flat and for Sherlock alone. 

-finis-


End file.
